


On Needs, Desires, and Callings, A. Damal

by thinkatory



Category: The Death of the Necromancer - Martha Wells
Genre: Character Study, Drug Addiction, Gen, Kind of a Case Fic, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-27 03:28:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2677340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkatory/pseuds/thinkatory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A day in the life of the greatest sorcerer in Ile-Rien.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Needs, Desires, and Callings, A. Damal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Flamebyrd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flamebyrd/gifts).



> Flamebyrd, I so enjoyed getting your prompts and writing for them! Arisilde is one of my favorites. I should note I did my best not to make this too angsty, to add hints of hope and light through Ari's various darknesses, so I hope that shows and that you enjoy this piece! :D

The Philosopher's Cross is busy, and the shouting in the streets wakes Arisilde earlier than he would have wished. He opens his eyes, blinks, and ignores the irresistible tug in his stomach, the hollow ache that he's known too well for the last nine years. He looks at the ceiling and contemplates, briefly, the day.

There's one pipe's worth of opium. It's not enough. He has ether, more than enough, and that should be fine, right now, as he's sober he knows that should be enough, but he needs both. It doesn't work if he doesn't have both. Without the opium, he is dazed, sedated, and melancholy; with just the opium, he is not in his body, he drifts. He needs both.

He closes his eyes again as Isham comes into the room. It's unfortunate. It's unfortunate that Isham doesn't understand. Of course, he can't truly blame him. Anyone who didn't know Edouard can't understand. Anyone without his power can't understand.

"Sir," Isham says, quietly, breaking the silence. Now he doesn't want to open his eyes again until the man leaves. "You intend to buy more."

He says nothing.

"I hope that you don't."

He says nothing.

"I'll make breakfast. You must eat."

He smiles, slowly, lazily, and opens his eyes. "Isham," he says, "you are too kind a man for this city."

"As are you," Isham says. The expression on his face could be called a smile, if the sadness did not stand out so clearly. "You must be back by lunch, sir. Mr Valiarde and Ms Denare have sent a telegram, they'll be here midday."

"Oh, will they?" He sits up. It cheers him, seeing Nicholas again, even if he will disapprove, and Madeline's dear face and voice, almost as reassuring to him as the opium dreams of Edouard. "I look forward to breakfast, Isham. Thank you."

"You're most welcome, sir."

Isham's gaze lingers as Arisilde reaches for the pipe. He seeks out the tinderbox, next, lights the pipe with minimal fumbling, and sits back against the headboard of his bed. It is lovely.

Twenty minutes later, though his mind is hazy, he doesn't see Isham, and he's waited too long. He has to find his man and secure his needs.

\--

He reads, after. The book is delightful, the story of a sorceress searching for knowledge and finding love in Lodun. It's not something Arisilde can really understand -- he's no cynic, and finds sentimental, romantic feelings and poetic dreams to be a lovely thing -- but he's never felt those things, for anyone, nonetheless a woman. He's considered the merits of making such efforts in the direction of Nicholas's probably handsome friend Reynard Morane, the Captain, but it's so theoretical and the Captain is so warm that an experiment of sorts seems unkind.

When he thinks about it, kindness is the most important thing, kindness and curiosity, but kindness most of all. His sorcery is a talent, refined in Lodun; his power is a gift, bestowed by a combination of genetics and luck. He wanted to use it for good, and to help those he loved.

So much for that.

He's drifted from the book. He attempts to focus. The fictional sorceress, Calliopeia, is a plain Rienish girl with more power than she could conceivably handle, with the help of all the sorcerers in Lodun, and not for the first time he's wished a character could leap from the page and sit beside him and join him and speak to him and him alone. Books are windows into a character's struggles and pain, and it would be easier to say things and open up to someone who he knew for sure would understand.

He also needs to learn how to read while under the opium's influence. He doesn't explain that to Isham when he sends him out for books that are arguably frivolous like this one. It would lead to the conversation he has learned to dread.

There was something he was meant to stay awake for. He's eaten lunch, so it can't be that. It probably wasn't very important, and if it was he has no chance of successfully pushing himself to remember it now. He carefully sets the book aside and lights his pipe again. The ether's probably to blame for his inability to concentrate today, now that he thinks on it.

He draws on the pipe, once and again. 

Isham is either keeping his distance or is gone. He misses the company, even with the worried disapproval that comes with it. Somehow, though, it occurs to him that everything will be fine.

He smiles. He drifts. He feels his head loll back.

_It's like things never changed. Lodun is sweet and bright in spring, and he feels at home and happy. He trusts the sorcerers walking the streets, the philosophers and physicians, the lot of them. Even the aristocrats. But none more than the man walking beside him._

_"It's good to see you, Edouard."_

_"And you, Ari." Edouard's smile is warm, a comfort in and of itself. He places a hand on Arisilde's shoulder. "You've been doing well."_

_"I'd like to be doing better," he says._

_"Wouldn't we all," Edouard says. "Perfect is the enemy of the good, my boy. And you are truly good, in all senses of the word."_

_"I don't know that I am."_

_"Trust the wisdom of my age, Arisilde. I can tell good from evil. You are a good man, and will always be so."_

_"There aren't only good and evil men in the world." He looks into the trees lining the street, the sunlight they catch in their leaves. He wishes he could catch the goodness Edouard sees in him and reflect it back in such a way. "Not all are angels or monsters."_

_"No," Edouard concedes. "But there are those who are born kind, and others born malicious. You were born kind."_

_"And what good it's done me."_

_"None of that, Ari," he says, and squeezes his shoulder. It feels so real, being with him, now, more real than -- than being awake. No, he can't think of the waking world, now. He doesn't want to wake, not yet. "I'm proud of you. As you are, as you will be."_

_"Edouard."_ He's waking. The ache of reality is trickling through him. _No, please no._ He drops back into the dream, easily, _if only for a few moments, yes, some escape. "Edouard, stay with me. I need you. Nic needs you. Without you, we'll..."_

_"You'll have each other." Edouard is smiling, in his mild, all-knowing way. "As long as you both reach to each other."_

He knows. Even in dreams he knows.

_"Edouard," he says, clinging to the dream,_ but it turns to nothing and his eyelids are heavy and aching. There's the sound of footsteps on the stair. The opium's effects have worn thin; the veil between him and reality has done so as well. "Isham," he calls, weakly.

The man does not answer. Arisilde pushes himself up from his bed. "Isham?" he tries.

There's a knock on the door. He wearily forces himself to the door, then smiles upon seeing his visitors.

"Nic! Madeline. Please, sit."

\--

Nicholas is wearing what Arisilde has always considered the man's "inspector's face." Though he may be a criminal now, he is one hair's breadth away from the acts of a man on the other side of the law. Probably. Admittedly, Arisilde has little experience with law, lawyers, and officers of the court, and what experience he's had he doesn't like to think on for very long.

He's inspecting for signs of the opium on Arisilde's face and in his behaviors, of course. To what purpose, Arisilde has never been sure. Perhaps for acting's sake? One could only hope.

"We could use your help, Arisilde," Nicholas says, averting his gaze and contemplating his hands. "There's a small matter that's been raised among the theatre folk."

"Not you, Madeline, you're all right?" Arisilde asks her, immediately.

"Oh, yes." He's surprised her. "Yes, I'm fine, Arisilde. Thank you for asking."

"Another actress," Nicholas explains. "A new girl. She's in a delicate situation, one that could threaten the standing of the theatre were it revealed or rumors to spread."

"And we can't have that," Madeline says, easily pithy.

Nicholas sighs, much in the same tone, if sighs can be made in a tone. Arisilde finds himself smiling, vaguely, though he's losing track of the conversation's purpose. "Yes, Madeline, I would be helpless without you, so the theatre must stand. This actress, Petra Schiele, she's been indiscreetly spotted on occasion with a nobleman of note, and he's told her he needs reassurances that she won't blackmail him."

"Hardly the most romantic sentiment," Madeline says, offhand.

"You don't believe she has evidence she could show to his House?" Nicholas asks her, surprised.

"I'm sure she does," Madeline answers. "Just because she could doesn't mean she will. You should know better than anyone."

Arisilde feels his arms itching. Actually, his skin in general is itching. He wishes they would leave, or stop talking, or at least turn away so he could smoke once again. "Nic," he says, suddenly, abruptly.

It snaps Nicholas back to the point. "Yes, Ari. I suppose we should get to your role in this. If you want to help us."

"What would you need me to do?" It should bother him that it's so easy to agree without knowing the terms, the lengths he'll go to for Nicholas, but there must be a line somewhere that he won't cross -- but Nic wouldn't bring work like that to him. (Would he?)

"Miss Schiele... has designs on marrying her nobleman." Nicholas clears his throat. "She would need evidence of noble blood herself. We can provide you the materials, but... forging the credentials in a manner that won't be detected is beyond our efforts, apparently. Your help would be appreciated."

"I can't believe she means to marry him," Madeline says plainly.

"You can't? Not all women are as cynical as you, my dear. Perhaps she loves the man and means to prove her fidelity."

"Is that what a lovely young girl from Riverside plotting to marry the nobleman who accuses her of blackmail -- without telling him, I should mention -- is? Fidelity?"

"Simple," Arisilde interrupts. He's disappointed. It's too simple. "It'll be simple. Bring me the paper and the handwriting I'll need to imitate. Is that all?"

"No," Nicholas says without missing a beat.

"Oh -- _Nic_ \-- don't -- " Madeline tries.

"It would suit us best to sway Miss Schiele's suitor in our favor," Nicholas says easily, ignoring her, "and gain influence with nobles when and where we can. I need you to come with me to his family's estate."

"To help him break into the family estate," Madeline translates, unnecessarily, but likely just to be sarcastic.

Arisilde isn't in the mood for this. He feels the high of the opium, the warmth, dropping from him like strings of sweat. He wants to be alone. To solve a problem. To escape inside of his head, or to smoke again. "I'll do it."

"Why do you think he'll turn on his family? Why do you think he'll agree to the marriage, at that?" Madeline presses Nicholas.

"I think he'll turn on his family if he agrees to the marriage," Nicholas says. Arisilde scratches his arm, wishing he could ignore them or leave. "Lengths he has to go to in order to marry the woman he loves, and all. And if he doesn't agree to the marriage, he'll deserve the theft."

"This is because he's related to Montesq. Isn't it?"

Arisilde looks up sharply at the name. Nicholas turns a smile to him, a sharp one that isn't reflected in his eyes.

"Yes," Arisilde says, in answer. "Isn't it always?"

\--

After, Nicholas is murmuring what must be orders to a silent Isham, likely about the opium. Madeline lingers, and Arisilde stares at his pipe where it sits not a foot from his reach. Finally, she speaks (Madeline, not the pipe).

"How are you faring, Arisilde?"

It's a cruel question, in a way. Patronizing. But she means well, and he knows that. "Day by day, Madeline, as we all do."

"Nic worries about you." She pauses. "As do I."

"I know." He smiles at her, despite himself. "I worry about him. And you."

She smiles back at him, faintly, and it cheers him. "You could be an actor, Arisilde."

"I think deceit is beyond me," he says.

"But conceits," she says, "are half of the game."

"I'll leave the game to Nicholas." Arisilde looks in his direction, and softens. The itch grows stronger, and he needs to scratch it, needs to, needs to, oh, he could scream from it -- _no_. Nicholas deserves better than this. That look on his face -- that fear -- it's bad enough that he's causing it, but to see the wound fresh would be too much. "Thank you, Madeline."

"For what?"

He doesn't look back at her. "You know."

There's a pause, and he flinches as she touches his face and smiles, sadly, close to him. She opens her mouth to speak, then kisses his forehead and strokes his cheek. He stays still as death, a sadness threatening to rival the ache only the pipe and the bottle can fill -- then she withdraws and goes to Nicholas's side.

They're all gone a moment later, as though they were never there.

Arisilde smokes, then. He rests, he contemplates, and he sets the pipe aside in a capricious moment, long before he's ready, but before he can drift too far away from reality. He stands, goes to the books, finds a sorcerer's basic text, paces, and reads. The words shift on the page, his vision unfocused. He can't bear it, in that instant, and throws the book against a wall in an instant of frustration, wincing at the sound and withdrawing.

A familiar darkness is pulling at him, at his heart, one that he only knows how to drown. The ether-soaked strawberries are prepared, waiting at his bedside. He pulls them closer to the edge of his bed, rests, and takes a breath before he eats the first.

\--

Arisilde can't wait until this marriage situation resolves itself and he'll get to look at wards likely built by a sorcerer far less noted than him, but one more notable than the sort made to do forgeries. He doesn't hate this sort of work, but it's far too easy, and the only thing to do was to drown his intellect so thoroughly in opium and ether that it became a true challenge again.

(It's not as though he'd fail either way.)

Isham clears his throat. He doesn't look up at him. "Yes, Isham?"

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"No. Thank you for asking."

There's a long pause. "Arisilde," Isham says slowly. "Do you want to help Nicholas?"

"Of course," he says, somewhat irritated. "I'm doing the work."

"With his plans." There's another long pause, as Arisilde works diligently at the forgery. "Against the Count."

"Isham," he says, with an edge of warning.

Isham is unmoved. "I understand if you don't want to answer. Or if I've overstepped."

"Yes. I want to help him," Arisilde says, simply, with a tone of finality.

"Would it be easier to help him if -- "

"Thank you, Isham," he interrupts, and ignores the way the Parscian goes stiff. "I'll call you if you're needed."

"Of course, sir."

The tone of his voice -- the fear, the -- 

Arisilde doesn't want to think about it.

Once the door shuts behind Isham, he pushes himself to his feet to prepare the ether.

\--

Nicholas arrives the next day, and Arisilde can hardly lift his eyelids. He allows Nicholas to help him to sit up.

"Edouard," he mumbles.

Nicholas freezes. "Ari..."

"No. Edouard."

"Ari, please."

The words Arisilde wants to say catch in his throat. "I want to help."

Nicholas exhales. "You already have."

He doesn't understand. Of course he doesn't -- he never listens. "You know I'll help."

"Yes." He touches Arisilde's shoulder. "I'll come tomorrow; we'll know whether the young lady's married to the Baron's son by then, and can move forward from there."

Arisilde makes a sound of assent.

Nicholas releases his shoulder. "The papers are on your desk?"

"Be careful," he warns Nicholas.

"Of what?"

"Of anything. For once."

Nicholas looks briefly amused; Arisilde found it much funnier than that. He lets it go, and sits back against his headboard. "Nic," he says, drifting again.

Nicholas's throat catches, audibly. "Yes, Ari?" he answers.

"You're loved," he says. "So loved. It's a gift."

There's a silence, and Nicholas releases a slow breath at the end. "That it is," he says, quietly. "Thank you, Arisilde."

"Thank you," he says, and fingers the fringe on his Parscian pillow, a soothing gesture.

"Tomorrow," Nicholas reminds him. "I'll be here tomorrow."

"Mm," Arisilde says, and sinks against the headboard. He doesn't turn to see Nicholas leave, or his expression most of all.

\--

"Did you tell the boy about the Count's sins?" Arisilde asks, suddenly, because the question needs asking.

It takes Nicholas off guard, presumably because Arisilde had been silently working on the wards around the Baron's house until then. "Is it done, Ari?"

"Not quite. The boy, did he marry the actress?"

"He did," Nicholas says. "And no, I didn't tell him about -- we shouldn't discuss this here."

"There's no chance they'll hear us," Arisilde says mildly. "Or anyone, for that matter. We're undetectable in every way. I made certain of it."

"...Yes, good news," Nicholas says slowly. "What about the wards?"

"One moment." He considers them, touches them, and draws his middle finger to his thumb and twists, with a brief moment of concentration. Perhaps too much; his head aches. "Done."

"All of it?"

"No." Arisilde smiles wryly. "Just that window, Nic."

"How -- you've said that with noble houses most often have -- "

"There are ways." He doesn't let Nicholas speak again. "You shouldn't go in."

Nicholas stares at him. "What?"

"There are other ways," he rephrases, and Nicholas looks sour. "Ways where you don't risk yourself."

"The risk is nothing," Nicholas dismisses.

"The risk is everything," Arisilde answers instantly.

There's a silence where Nicholas is struggling to find a way to manipulate, plan, or win this argument, but Arisilde already knows what to say. "Steal, or spy. Doing both is doing neither."

Nicholas continues to look sour, but sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "You always were the sensible one."

"I _was_ ," he points out, cheerily, but his mood fades at Nicholas's expression at that. "Nic -- "

"Theft tonight. They'll suspect nothing afterward. Then -- we'll talk about that another time." Nicholas looks him in the face, and there's a gentleness that is so rare to find in his eyes, all these years after they lost Edouard. "Crack's at the gate. I trust you can find your way there."

"You do?" Arisilde turns before Nicholas can answer. "I won't leave. I'm here for you, Nic."

Nicholas doesn't answer, but Arisilde can feel his smile, his sad but gentle smile, with his back turned and each step he takes away from him.

_There must be some way to balance it all._ The need makes him dizzy, but he walks straight and stays calm. _To help. To survive._

If there is -- he's Arisilde Damal, allegedly the greatest sorcerer in Ile-Rien. He'll find a way.


End file.
